An Accessory After The Fact
by hobbitsdoitbetter
Summary: Baker Street, 1895. In light of his revelations regarding Dr. Hooper and the Abominable Bride, Holmes elects to invite his nemesis- ahem, colleague- to his flat to discuss her part in the most damnable case of his career. Of course, given how well he and Hooper have always gotten along in the morgue, their little tete-a-tete does not go entirely according to plan... Or does it?


_Disclaimer:_ This fan fiction is not written for profit and no infringement of copyright is intended. Not beta-read so all mistakes are mine. Just a little something inspired by _The Abominable Bride._..

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~ **AN ACCESSORY AFTER THE FACT ~**

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 ** _221B Baker Street, 1895_**

 ** _(Well… Sort of)_**

Holmes opens the door to his rooms, invites her inside.

She accepts with a curt nod of her head and brushes past him.

As she does so he once again thinks it, that he can't believe that he didn't see it before. That he can't believe that a woman- albeit, a very talented, very determined woman- managed to fool him entirely for all these years.

And now she's standing in his parlour and glowering at him like a Fury and for once in his life he is utterly at a loss as to what to say.

Because, yes, he can concede that he might not have guessed what lengths a medical woman would have to go to in order to pursue her profession. Apparently it's easier for him to imagine a women murdering her husband than one performing that husband's autopsy. Others would tell him he shouldn't find it surprising: Though universities are slowly opening up, making a tolerable living as anything other than governess or housekeeper is an avenue closed to a respectable woman- And quite a few unrespectable women too. _Witness Irene Adler_.

For that reason most intelligent females- of which his guest is, undoubtedly one- simply take their chances in the lottery of marriage: They choose the best man who will have them and then they make the most of what they have, giving their husband heirs and themselves grey hairs in the process. _It's just the way things are done._

And yet… _And yet…_

Holmes himself has seen what such choices inflict on the women who live through them before. He has even agreed (privately) with Mary that women's current lot as chattel and unpaid servant should come to an end, post haste. Any innate sense of justice or fair play would suggest that confining half of the human race to such drudgery and dismissal would be both indefensible and profoundly stupid. The fact that one's strength relies on the imprisonment and disenfranchisement of so many of one's fellow creatures suggests that that strength is not, in fact, terribly formidable at all. _Any fool, Holmes feels, should be able to see this._ And in addition, he now finds he has a new course of agreement with Mary and her suffragette sisters: After all, confining the sort of woman who can fool _him_ for three years into thinking she's a man is nothing short of a damned waste.

Of talent.

Of opportunity.

Of intelligence. (And he does so admire intelligence).

So when he gestures for her to sit- it's still so distracting, seeing Dr. Hooper is a dress- he means to pay her a compliment. To be kind, for once, though he is seldom kind to anyone at all.

As soon as she sits however he sees something dark move through her eyes. Something… calculating. Something wary.

Immediately his senses go on alert.

He is, after all, in the presence of, if not a murderer, then an accessory after the fact. A rather…enthusiastic accessory, from what the evidence, and their own interactions over the years, tells him.

They sit opposite one another, a teapot and two cups between them, cake and bread and butter ready and waiting to be eaten, and as they stare at one another it occurs to Holmes that he hasn't a notion what to say.

By the looks of things, neither does Dr. Hooper.

But silence is not in his nature, and he knows it. No matter how much trouble his speaking up will cause, he knows that he will invariably do so. _It's only a matter of time_. So, as he often does, he takes a deep breath and opens his mouth, about to let the first thing on his mind trip off his tongue-

"People know where I am, Mr. Holmes."

Dr. Hooper speaks over him, her voice low. Her hands tighten, ever so slightly, on her rather well-used reticule.

There's a bulge in it which might be a handgun.

Holmes blinks. He's not sure why that's relevant though he is intrigued by the notion that she's armed. "People know where I am too, Dr. Hooper," he rejoins evenly. "Why is such a thing relevant?"

"It's relevant because, whatever happens here, there will be witnesses. People will find out about it.

"I am far from free of friends, should I need them."

And the young woman looks at him with dark eyes, her body tensing. She shifts ever so slightly, her legs tucked beneath her as if she's preparing to rise at a moment's notice. To flee.

The way her shoulder shifts towards it suggests she's thinking about making straight for the door- Though the window may also be an option.

For a moment Holmes feels surprise- and no small amount of insult- and then it occurs to him what she might be talking about. What she might have taken from the note he dashed off to invite her to this meeting. After all, he'd asked to see her alone. He'd told her he wanted to talk to her about The Abominable Bride case. He'd mentioned her secret, that he'd kept her name out of Watson's version of the matter-

"Oh," he says.

He sees it now.

He rather wishes he didn't.

She cocks an eyebrow. "Oh, what, pray tell?"

Her tone positively drips sarcasm.

Holmes grimaces, annoyance moving through him. It's the damned problem with interacting with females. He'll have to- He shall have to discuss something _delicate_.

"I did not bring you here to debauch, blackmail or sexually importune you, Dr. Hooper," he says bluntly.

 _Or not, as the case may be._

"Oh." Now it's the young doctor's turn to blink, surprised and perhaps annoyed by his bluntness. He really shouldn't have put it that baldly but, well, as mentioned, tact is not really his forte. Neither is patience. And besides, he finds himself annoyed that she would assume so base a motivation for his actions.

He knows they've never gotten along but really: Shouldn't she think better of him than this?

Apparently however, she doesn't. "But if you have no ulterior motive in demanding my presence, Mr. Holmes," she's saying, "then why did you tell me to come _alone_?"

She lays a rather annoying emphasis on that last word.

Holmes feels like laying a rather annoying emphasis on the fact that she's being an idiot.

But he does not. As ever when dealing with a lady he tries to be patient. " _Tries," being the operative word._ So, he stands. Paces. He doesn't like where this is going and he particularly doesn't like it that it's happening in his own parlour but needs must when the devil rides, so-

"Would you have preferred I indicate there should be witnesses?" he demands.

Dr. Hooper rises to face him. "Quite frankly," she bites out, "yes, I would."

"And why is that?" he retorts. "Because you think all men slaves to their appetites, and all women are their prey?"

Somehow, without his quite meaning to, he appears to have gotten closer to Dr. Hooper.

He's now standing over her, glowering, and he can't help but notice she's a great deal smaller than he.

She gives not an inch though. Face flushed, hands clenched into fists at her sides, she looks like nothing so much as a tiny, self-righteous Valkyrie. As she answers she pushes herself up on tiptoe, enters his personal space.

It's been a long time since a woman has been brave enough to take such liberties as these.

"I have spent my entire life having to guard my virtue, my name, my reputation, Mr. Holmes," she's saying. "A man so careless with the world's opinion as you may have no idea what that means, but I do."

He sneers. "Which is why you elected to defraud the City of London and St. Bart's by securing a post in their morgue, despite the fact that you were expressly barred from it by reason of your sex?" he scoffs. "Because you are so worried about your reputation?"

Sheer, hot rage floods her features at his cavalier, dismissing words.

Holmes has the oddest feeling that this conversation is moving out of his control and he finds- He finds he rather likes the thought.

 _How damnably odd._

"The Dr. Hooper who worked in Bart's had a damn fine reputation, sir," she's saying hotly. "You of all people know I was the best bloody pathologist than blasted place had-"

"Had?" he snaps. "Had? My dear woman, whatever do you mean, "had,"?" A horrid thought occurs to him. "What have you done, you silly creature?"

She looks at him like he's an imbecile. "I've left- whatever else do you think I've done?"

"Oh for heaven's sake." The words come out rather more loudly, sharply and aggressively than he intended and they cause Dr. Hooper to falter. Step back. Worry moves through her eyes and something else- Something he recognises. He's seen it in too many people who have come to him.

It's the anticipation of violence. Of pain. Of retribution, for speaking out.

He thinks back to those women in the chapel, that army Mycroft told him they should allow to win, and instantly Holmes feels that seldom-allowed emotion- contrition- rear its ugly head. It feels absolutely ghastly.

A beat stretches out.

It's a long, tense, irritatingly uncomfortable beat and he likes it not at all.

Eventually the tension seems to break of its own accord however and after a moment he takes in a loud, gusty breath. Manages to shoot her a sharp, tight smile which she doesn't return. Eyes still on her, he takes three steps backwards. She doesn't follow him, though he sees a sliver of gratitude ghost across her face at his giving her a moment to compose herself. To that end she turns her back to him, hands clenched together as she paces over to his fire. Lays one small hand on his mantelpiece, knuckles white against the marble. Her breathing is a little… uneven.

Alas, Holmes fears his can match it.

For a moment they just stare at one another, unsure, utterly unsure, of what they're even doing here, but then-

"I believe I invited you for tea," he says stiffly and she nods. He takes his seat again, pours out a cup of tea and- after raising his eyebrow in question to her and receiving an affirmative- he pours another for his guest.

The young doctor moves back to sit in her chair, her demeanour both calmer and more wary. He finds he doesn't like it: Irritating as it was, he rather preferred her Valkyrie act.

Another silence stretches out.

"So," he says after a moment, "you have left your post at Bart's, I take it?"

She nods. Sadness tightens her mouth, straightens it. Those fine, bright brown eyes of hers appear almost bereft but when she sees him noticing this she turns her expression fierce. "When my part in the murders came to light, I thought it best," she says quietly.

He doesn't understand. "But I assured you that I would take no action against you," he points out. "Your name was kept out of it, and you didn't murder anyone, I've no doubt of that. You didn't have to leave."

She looks up sharply at this, eyes boring into him, but he soldiers on.

"And besides- I am not the police," he continues, feeling rather uncomfortable under such open appraisal. "I have even, in the past, been known to allow people to walk away from their actions, were I to feel them justified…"

She cocks her head. "So you have put yourself and your opinion ahead of police, judge and jury, Mr. Holmes?" she asks.

He nods.

"Just as you have, Dr. Hooper," he points out as he hands her the sugar bowl and tongs. She takes them, her small, slight fingers brushing momentarily against his own. "We both of us understand the difference between justice and the law."

She opens her mouth, about to surprise him perhaps, or disagree with him, or even correct him, but at the last minute she stops. Cocks her head again and looks at him, really looks at him. Holmes finds himself… warming under her appreciation.

 _It is, he must admit, both a thrilling and disconcerting feeling._

Her expression is confused, speculative. She appears to almost be… dissecting him and though he knows he shouldn't like it he finds he has no argument with her methods; it reminds him, ever so slightly, of the first time he met Mary and the way she looked at him. _Of course, he never felt so damnably odd under Mary's gaze as he does under Hooper's_. But then, he had known from the first moment he met her that Mary was interested in John, though why his mind should be reminding him of this fact as if it's pertinent is anyone's guess-

He feels rather uncomfortable, that he's entertaining it.

After a moment however Hooper must find whatever she's looking for, because she visibly relaxes. Nods to herself. She even takes a small sip of her tea and grimaces, adding more milk. "Too much sugar," she supplies at his look. "I'm not a fan of the cloyingly sweet, Mr. Holmes- It's something you should know about me."

He inclines his head. "Then I believe we have something in common." He raises his cup in salute to her. "That's something you should know about me. Now drink up, Dr. Hooper. Drink up. I haven't all night to entertain you, you know."

"Imagine my relief at that, Mr. Holmes." And she shoots him a smile, surprisingly soft and sweet for all her hawkish temperament. Holmes finds himself returning it, tasting his own tea and finding it pleasingly bitter. The scent rises up, mixing with her perfume and he finds it... Really, he finds it rather pleasant, much to his surprise. They sit and watch the fire and talk about getting Dr. Hooper another position, preferably one where she didn't have to pretend to be male in order to be hired.

Holmes finds that he rather likes the idea- And not just because it might mean she's nicer to him when he comes to visit the morgue.

Eventually darkness falls in this Baker Street, the lady getting up and leaving so that Holmes may prepare himself for bed, prepare himself for a rest which he knows is a long time coming. He lays down in bed and closes his eyes; He sees Dr. Hooper behind them and for some unexpected reason this makes him smile…

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While in the same house, in the year 2016, Sherlock opens his eyes with a gasp, finally managing to struggle out of his Mind Palace and the grip of the drugs he'd talked himself into taking...

"So?" John says worriedly. "Did you find what you were looking for?"

"No," Sherlock says, his tone petulant… Mainly because he knows that his answer is not the entire truth.

 _He suspects he's discovered something worthwhile after all, he just hasn't a notion what to do with it, now that he knows._


End file.
